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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928714">Of Silver Bells and Ether Shells (A Weight By My Side Through Both Night and Day)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream'>ohmygoshwhatascream</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>So I Worried and Worried and Worried (Praying That You Were Not Dead) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Xenoblade Chronicles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood, F/M, Graphic descriptions of injury, Gratuitous use of metaphors, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Near Death Experiences, Post Game, Whump, bc I said so, impromptu lessons on using ether rifles, incorrect rifle terminology, mentions of gadolt, reyn is soft, sharla is very cool, spoilers for end game, they are married and in love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:02:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928714</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The mission, while dangerous, should have been simple.</p><p>They had faced much worse, defeated much more fearsome threats than this. </p><p>But neither of them are invincible and sometimes - no matter how strong you are - you can still get hurt. At least she's got Reyn by her side. Who, to both her amusement and her embarrassment, proves himself to be more of a mother hen than she's ever been. </p><p>(Not that she's complaining)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Reyn/Sharla (Xenoblade Chronicles)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>So I Worried and Worried and Worried (Praying That You Were Not Dead) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Of Volffs and Soldiers (An Issue That Can't Be Ignored)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/tornadoarts/gifts">tornadoarts</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy belated birthday Soph! I love you lots and I'm sorry this is so late, if you're reading this I hope you enjoy it!</p><p>heheh oops this was supposed to be a short 3k oneshot but oops I Exist and, like it always seems to do these days, it got out of hand. I've still got a heck of a lot more ideas for these two, and I may write another fic in this.... soft hurt/comfort series I seem to have started, so feel free to leave ideas and prompts in the comments! x </p><p>The first half of the title is also a spin off of that mary mary quite contrary poem bc i think about that poem a lot for no explainable reason lmao.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the first time in quite a while, the new colony finds itself facing a very real and a very tangible threat.</p><p>A pack of rabid volffs, ones that had been sighted in the furthest outskirts of the Colony just over a fortnight ago. The soldier who had found them had barely made it out alive. The only reason he was still here, still breathing, was due to exceptionally good fortune. A group of mercenaries had been making their way to the colony and had they not been there to help, the soldier would have most certainly died.</p><p>Even then, they had still arrived too late. The soldier had still lost his leg, a volff managing to sink its teeth so deeply into the flesh that it was long beyond repair upon his return. Sharla, in fact, had been the one who amputated it. The muscle had been torn beyond repair, the bone shattered and the flesh peeling off in droves of stinking blood clots; like swathes of fabric hanging off of exposed bone.</p><p>Even with the most powerful ether cylinders the colony could forge, there would be no saving this poor soldier's leg. There was nothing they could have done, and off it had to come. It was a painful thing to do to someone, even if such an operation would no doubt save their life. (Infection was a horrible thing, and the gaping wound had been tinged with a blackness that could not be excused for a shadow of fallen light) It would be a long while until the soldier would be allowed to go into active duty once more; there was a possibility that he never would again. Physiotherapy was a long and gruelling process, and there was no guarantee that his mobility would ever become anything close to what it had once been.</p><p>The mercenaries, who had dragged the soldier to safety, had been wide-eyed and frightened as they had stormed the colony in panicked shouts and ragged breaths. It was a large group of them, about six or seven - two of them were barely adults (they couldn't have been much older than nineteen) but the rest of them had been experienced soldiers; hardened by battle. The scars that ran down their bared arms, the discolouration of old wounds that lingered on their hardened faces, were proof of this. They were most certainly battle-trained, a fact which had set an underlying whisper of fear amongst the higher ranking officials of the defence force. Had they been weaker looking, had they not had countless weapons strapped to the insides of their cloaks, the soles of their boots, the threat outside would have not seemed so dangerous. The mercenaries were nomadic, the few survivors from the fallen colonies all those years ago, and they were ruthless fighters. People who had adapted under the very worst of circumstances, crawled through hell and came out of the other side. weapons in their hands and scowls on their faces. </p><p>If <em> they </em> were cowering from a pack of volffs, then this truly was a serious concern. </p><p>So they had sent troops out to dispose of them; in fear that the pack would soon start making their way closer to the colony. Fifteen of some of their highest trained soldiers. With confidence, the group had left the colony; their heads raised high. There was still lingering doubt in their minds, for many did not believe the severity of such a threat. They were survivors of the Mechon; they had held the ground between a battle of the gods themselves and they had gone on to live another day. A pack of <em> volffs, </em> of all the things, was no concern to them. </p><p>Thirteen returned and the threat had not been removed. </p><p>They had faced worse casualties in the final war of the Mechonis and Bionis, the legendary battle that had formed a whole new world. But this was <em> not </em> the old world. This was not a place that was war-torn, a place where death loomed around every corner and home became a place to be feared. In this world they had grown soft, perhaps. They were not used to their livelihoods being threatened and that was… foolish of them, really.</p><p>They had become more… <em> passive </em> over the last few years, still adjusting to the ways of this new world; the saltiness of the sea and the heat of sunlight. Of course, the other indigenous life had been adjusting too; and now that the homs and nopon and machina and all the remaining high entia were beginning to find their feet, so were the wildlife. </p><p>Threats had been steadily growing in numbers over the past year. Rhoguls out of control, vangs attacking all those who dare pass; poison brogs infesting the water and - of course - the volffs ever-growing in their numbers.</p><p>There had been a spike of rabid animals as of late, also. There were new diseases, new pathogens on this planet; ones that Sharla was doing her best to study and understand to (hopefully) halt any damage that could take place if left unchecked. It seemed that other species were also struggling with disease, at the least, and it seemed all life still had a good few years before they would fully adjust to this new life.</p><p>But that did not change that they had grown complacent, here in their relative safety. They had grown accustomed to times of peace, to periods of safety. So accustomed that they had let their guards drop, let their defences lessen, and allowed an invasion of rabid volffs into the Colony.</p><p>Out of those thirteen, seven had been seriously injured and the other six, while not in critical condition, still needed bandaging up. </p><p>There had been over a dozen volffs there, (at the very least!) Sharla had been told, and they would be a formidable threat on their own; but then there is the leader. A fearsome creature, Sharla hears. The one who had been the primary killer of the soldiers who had not returned, ripped a chunk out of one's side and tore the other one's head clean off; before they could even think about fighting back. </p><p>It had been gruesome, an awful sight for anyone to see. And, to make matters worse, the mission had been a failure and the threat had not been subdued.</p><p>So that is why, only three days after their return, a new group of soldiers are sent out. The very strongest, this time, and more of them. </p><p>Twenty was all they could spare; twenty of their most experienced soldiers. </p><p>It is moments like these when Sharla misses their gang, their group of seven that had taken on the world itself. Her lungs burn painfully when she thinks of them sometimes. As though she can't quite breathe, as though she isn't quite sure how to truly live when it is not the seven of them; out in the vastness of the world. (Reyn is the same, they all are. The journey had been over years ago, but still the remnants of their experiences lingered)</p><p>It is a fool's dream now, however. Something impossible, a team that has long since passed its prime and a team that - although they are friends that span the horizons and far beyond - will never take up blade (and staff and rifle and… Riki's weapon, whatever that is. Sharla's still not really sure on that one) and fight once more. Dunban's paralysed arm had worsened, the injury now so severe that there would be little hope in him ever fighting again. Riki is too old, and in a few years there is no doubt that he will have a slew of grand kinds of his own. Melia has her own kingdom to worry about and as much as she would love to make the time to see them all again, she simply does not have it. Fiora's body has never been the same, even with her flesh and blood restored; and much like Dunban; she simply lacks the capacity to fight.</p><p>Shulk is the only other member of their old group who could still find the time, but - as luck would have it - he isn't anywhere near the colony as of now. He's with Melia, helping her with 'official's business', as Reyn had put it. Sharla doesn't quite know what they're doing, but she has the sneakiest suspicion that a wedding might soon be on the horizon. </p><p>So, for now, it is just her and Reyn of their original seven.</p><p>Of course, that is not to say that the team of <em> twenty, </em> the other eighteen soldiers they are sent out with, are any less brilliant or talented as their old friends; but they <em> are </em> more difficult to fight with. There is not the blind trust, the endless faith, that they have between them. Sharla <em> does </em> trust them, for they are soldiers, they are her brothers and sisters in the force, but she would not follow them to the ends of the earth; she cannot read their minds with a simple glance and she cannot fight alongside them like she had done on their adventures. It comes harder to her, to place her trust in these people she does not quite know. (she had trusted Dickson, her thoughts always whisper. She had trusted so many people on that journey, and so much of it had turned out to be lies)</p><p>Reyn, of course, she trusts even more than she had on their adventures. She trusts her entire self, her heart and soul and <em> everything </em> within Reyn; just as he does with her.</p><p>But that does not change that she is unfamiliar with much of her team.</p><p>She is the best medic in the colony, which she had once been loath to admit, (she had always thought it had seemed arrogant to admit such a thing) but it <em> is </em> true. Two of their twenty work with her occasionally in the infirmary. She had trained one of them herself and overseen another one in passing. Six of their twenty have some capability with ether healing, the things they could use in a pinch, and the rest are only aware of the most basic first aid. This includes Reyn. They could, if the time called for it, heal moderate injuries mostly on their own; but for the most part, they would struggle. She has been working tirelessly to try and introduce a higher standard for first aid in the defence force, to try and train new recruits whilst they can, to ensure that <em> everyone </em> knows more than some vague recollection of CPR techniques. It's a slow process, unfortunately, and although there are many in the force who vouch for her, the stigma of healers being <em> weak </em> is something that hangs over many minds.</p><p>It is why she is here. Why she has been removed from her usual post and sent out into the field. Only on the very rarest of occasions is she ever sent out. It comes with a measure of pride that she is considered an essential in the colony; that they do not wish for her to be absent for - at this current point in time - she is one of the most advanced persons in medicine as of now - rivalled only by the likes of Linada. So it is only on the very rarest of occasions, only when there is no other option, that she is voluntarily chosen to be sent out onto the field. She cannot help the spark of anger that settles within her over this arrangement, however. She had held her own ground in those battles on Prison Island, she had helped defeat a <em> god </em>, and she still sometimes feels like her talents on the battlefield are dismissed)</p><p>Her presence on this mission, if anything, is a clear warning to them all that this will be dangerous.</p><p>It is easy to laugh it off, for a pack of <em> volffs </em> of all things would never seem like such a threat to their lives; especially after the threat of Mechon had plagued their lands for many of their lifespans. Even though they have heard the stories, although they have seen the damage these volffs had done to the other soldiers in the force, there was still that disbelief. All of them had survived a war that had spanned titans; that had spanned the very threads of ether itself. How could <em> this </em> be a problem, how could <em> this </em> kill them? There is that arrogance of life, a piece of humanity that speaks of Zanza's own troubled mind when they had been created. There is an idea of immortality, forged by self-confidence, that has spread through their new lives. The thought that they are unbeatable, that this new world will hold no threats for them now. </p><p>So her and Reyn and the eighteen others head out of the colony with their heads held high and victory in their eyes. <em> This will be a breeze, </em> Sharla thinks; the voice in her head (as it so often is) so strikingly like Reyn himself that Sharla can't help but laugh to herself. She shifts, hands adjusting the heavy rifle slung over her shoulder. </p><p>It is not Gadolt's. She has not used Gadolt's rifle since the war had ended. She still kept up maintenance, still looked after it and cleaned it and replaced parts whenever they needed it, but she did not use it. Not anymore. </p><p>She had gotten her own rifle; one that she could take into the field with no fear of damage, no fear of breakages. One that did not hold the memories of a ghost; of a long-dead man who she would never see again. It was easier to use this new rifle; for this one is not lighter but it <em> feels </em> so. </p><p>The war had been won, Sharla had fought for the life that Gadolt had never gotten to live, and when that had ended it had felt wrong to take it into battle anymore. Perhaps she is a fool, but the gun is all she has left of him. Other than memories, ones that are beginning to fade with each passing year, that rifle is all she has left. </p><p>Reyn had understood; like he always seemed to do, when Sharla had sat in their living room, servicing a rifle she would never use again. </p><p>"He can rest easy now," Reyn had said, standing behind her, his hands a comforting weight on her shoulder. She had looked up at him then, looked at his dark eyes, the way his brows furrowed with a quiet sort of sadness; a deep loss for a man he had never really met. (He is always so easy to read, something which she takes comfort in, for Reyn is a brash sort of honesty that she could never grow tired of)</p><p>She had finished servicing it, put it back in storage, placed carefully with her other weapons, the old armour and clothes she'll never use again but she doesn't have the heart to get rid of. </p><p>That night when she'd gone to sleep, her legs intertwined with Reyn's and her head on his chest, her hair billowing around her like blackened smoke, he had tapped her on the shoulder, ever so carefully, just before she had slipped off to sleep. <em> Are you happy, </em> he'd asked, and the answer had come easily to her. Like breathing, like blinking, like waking up each and every morning, she had smiled, snuggled deeper into his chest, wrapping her arms around him. <em> Yes. </em> She'd said. <em> Yes. </em> And, as she'd drifted off to sleep, she had been soothed by the quiet sounds of Reyn's even breaths, the warmth of his arms around her.</p><p>When she'd awoken the next day, the bed had been cold. Reyn had been gone for a while, it seemed. But as her eyes eased open, the sight of a steaming mug of tea on her bedside table had caught her eye. </p><p>She had taken it, sipped on it as she shuffled to the living room. </p><p>There Reyn had stood, in front of their fireplace, his hair bright like fire in the morning light. And, just above him, hung upon the wall, was Gadolt's rifle. </p><p>
  <em> Is this okay? I can move it, if it's too much. But… I want to remember him. For us. He sacrificed himself so we could live an' if it weren't for him- we'd be dead, an' I'd never have been as happy as I am now. </em>
</p><p>She had approached him then, pulled him into a tight hug. Placed kisses along the line of his jaw, the slight roughness of stubble from a few days without shaving, and tangled her fingers in his hair. </p><p>She appreciated that, more than she could communicate in words. Reyn had never once asked her to forget Gadolt, never once asked her to move on. She loved them both, loved the two of them more than the world itself; but Gadolt had <em> died </em> to give Sharla another chance, to give her the hope of happiness once more, and although she could never forget him; she could heal. She could find love once more, be happy once more. </p><p>So Sharla does not use Gadolt's rifle anymore. He is in rest now. Never forgotten, but never again will his memory; the last remaining piece of him in this world, be used for pain and violence. It will sit above the golden glow of warm firelight, in the home that he and Sharla had never gotten to have, and together she and Reyn will grow; will change, will never forget him but instead remember what he sacrificed. Remember what he gave up so they could go on living. </p><p>So out they walk into the field, they exit the safety of the Colony with their heads held high, Sharla's new rifle slung over her shoulder. As they walk out, the twenty of them, it does not take long before Reyn has <em> somehow </em> (completely accidentally, of course) managed to slip himself besides Sharla.</p><p>The walk is not long; for the volff have been getting closer and closer, but Reyn still takes her hand in his. Squeezes it, rubs his thumb across her knuckles as he leans ever so slightly closer to her than is strictly necessary.</p><p>He's always like this, always one to show affection with actions. In public spaces, it is Reyn who usually initiates contact, the one who takes her hands in his and wraps his arm around her waist. She'd never really been one for public displays of affection, never before, but with Reyn she finds herself standing on the tips of her toes for a chaste kiss, holding her hand out for Reyn to take before he even thinks to take it. They've been married for two years now, they'd dated for five before that. She thought that eventually she would grow less besotted with Reyn - not less in love, but less in that so-called 'honeymoon phase' of things. Maybe it's because of their adventure, the one that had ended almost a decade ago, but that has yet to happen. They could never take this for granted, never take their lives or their love as a fact of the world. (She cannot help but feel like she had taken Gadolt's love for granted, fallen into a mindset that he would always be there; that not every moment should be cherished. She will not make that mistake again)</p><p>So her hand is held in Reyn's, warm and small and slender in Reyn's own. She has her own callouses, her own scars, but Reyn's hands are hard and square and rough. Yet for their strength, they are always gentle with her. She leans into him, momentarily, her hair resting against his shoulder, before she pulls away ever so slightly. Her eyes flicker towards the other soldiers, her hand giving one final squeeze before she retreats. With a final, longing glance Reyn's way, she slows herself, pushes him forward, as they return to their previous formation.</p><p>She is a healer, a medic, and in a quest such as this; she is arguably their most valuable ally. It is her job to stay out of the way, to stay <em> alive </em> and offer her support from the sidelines.</p><p>She knows that she is in the background, never the strongest or the most important, but she knows that if she were not here, she would be missed. Like a vase of flowers, she thinks. It is the flowers that everyone looks for, but it is the vase that holds them. </p><p>Reyn looks back to her, multiple times, as they walk further and further away from the colony; closer and closer to the volff pack. Every time their eyes make contact, she feels a swell of warmth burst from within her like the rising sunlight in the morning sky.</p><p>x</p><p>It takes them one and a half hours before they see the first clear signs of Volff life. The sight of it, the claw marks in the ground and he disturbed terrain, an armu corpse laying half-discarded nearby, frightens Sharla. It had taken them an hour and a half to get here, and they (for there was a mixture, homs, high entia, nopon and machina) were much, much slower than a Volff. Even the machina, towering high above them at seven and eight feet, could not hope to match a pace set by volffs on the hunt.</p><p>This thought scares Sharla for one and a half hours was not a long time. The volffs, if they so desired, could make it to the colony in a quarter of that, perhaps even less.</p><p>She cannot help but think of that poor soldier, the one who had lost his leg. That - had they left things even a few hours longer - could have been one of the local children, one of the elderly. The pack could have been on their doorstep, tearing through the village before they would even have time to react. The rest of them would have been sitting ducks, helpless to do much as the creatures would rampage through their streets.</p><p>Sharla does not want to think about that.</p><p>So onwards they continue, all twenty making their way methodically through the scarred wreckage of the Volff's domain. They traipse onwards, the landscape gradually growing worse and worse, and in only a few minutes time, they hear the unmistakable, low growls of a volff. They are near a small cliffside now, a darkened cove of sorts, and the entire thing has an air of a graveyard. Rotting meat stinks up the place, oozing bloodshed contaminating the death-yellow grass below. Bones, still dripping with half-eaten flesh, lays abandoned like strange forgotten statues, the mottled white splintered and eerie in the low light.</p><p>Sharla can't help but be reminded of the fate of the soldiers who had fought here before. The one whose head had been torn clean off. She suddenly feels sick, and decides that perhaps she should <em> stop </em> looking at the area around them, lest she witness something she would rather not. </p><p>The growling of the volff grows louder, or, to be more precise, not <em> one </em> volff; but many. For this growling is like a rumble of thunder, a cacophony of sound that seems to vibrate through the very earth itself. The ground around them is bleeding shadow, as if the land itself has been plagued by sickness. For the briefest of moments, the sound of volff-rumble is deafened by the simultaneous clink of weapons, of rifles ready to fire, swords drawn out from their sheaths, the front lines (where Reyn is) with their shield's held out in front of them. A wall of metal and flesh that will protect them whilst they get their bearings, prepare themselves for the destruction of battle.</p><p>There is a moment of silence, for the very briefest of seconds. As though the world itself is taking in one deep breath, one long inhale; and Sharla finds herself holding in air alongside it. </p><p>They are surrounded by mountain-land, encased in shadow that turns them blind. They cannot see their enemy, and they are at a clear disadvantage. All they can do is wait, keep themselves focused and ready and ensure that they are prepared for the oncoming storm of a battle. </p><p>With a sudden howl, it is as if the mountains themselves open up. Volffs shoot out like streaks of shadow from the darkness, the antithesis of a bolt of lightning. Like storm clouds over a bright summer's day, the thunder rumbles louder and louder as the volffs leap out into the waning light. </p><p>Sharla only catches a glimpse of them before chaos ensues, but there is no mistaking the white foam that froths from their lips. Thick saliva, stained pink by reddened gums, that drools from between their bared jaws; their teeth glinting sharp and bright like daggers waiting to slice and tear. Their fur is matted, thick and tangled, scars and welts and half-healed wounds oozing at the edges. The soldiers who had been sent out last had obviously managed to make their mark, but by no means did these creatures seem any less aggressive, any weaker from their remaining injuries. Their claws are sharp, their bodies taught and lined with thick muscle, prepared to strike.</p><p>Time seems to stop for that moment, the very second before they launch their attack, and then it all speeds up once more. </p><p>They are lost amidst a battle, the kerfuffle of fighting that there is no hope to try and comprehend. There are too many of them, both soldiers and volffs, to have a clear idea of what is happening. </p><p>Sharla tries her hardest, keeps to the sidelines (like they had strategised) and heals when she can. The air is decorated in the various light of ether, both healing blue and stark purple and vibrant red. Golden light trickles down from the barrel of her rifle, orange firelight swirling around her as she gets into the groove of things, her eyes overseeing what she can; her fingers taut on the trigger of her gun as she tries to keep on top of things. Others heal where they can, but it is her who they are relying on. She feels as if she is burning in flame, her voice cracking at the ends as she roars over the sound of gunshot. Tomorrow her throat will be burned raw no doubt.</p><p>Her rifle is getting hotter, but she ignores it. She can feel the blisters forming on her hands, the blinding pain that shoots through her fingers as she continues to fire it, on and on, ignoring the ever-building heat. She needs to vent it soon, preferably now, but there isn't the time. The tingling of her fingertips is an unpleasant sensation, and she knows that her hands - already suffering from nerve damage from years of burns and scars - really shouldn't have to suffer <em> more </em>, but she cannot slow down. </p><p>These volff are vicious. They… there is something not quite right about them. Something feral and terrifying, something so very unlike the animals Sharla knows. It is the rabies; she knows this, but even on the Bionis, rabid creatures had never fought with such abandoned fury, never as though they had nothing else to lose. </p><p>So Sharla keeps fighting, keeps healing and healing and healing whenever she can. She cools her rifle when the heat grows too much for the ether, when her healing arts begin to fail under scorching heat, but she does not stop fighting.</p><p>Her eyes catch the flames of orange, the briefest glimpses of Reyn amidst the chaos, and she feels tension rise deep within her bones. He is but a blur in the distance, but even from here she can see the strange way he holds himself; the telltale signs of a leg injury. He'd never been the fastest and Sharla silently hopes that the world proves itself to be kind, that this battle does not end in one more tragedy. Her arms are tense, tired, muscles stretched beyond their limit, but still she does not give up. </p><p>They are winning this battle, undoubtedly.</p><p>She can see fallen bodies; two around her. She cannot tell if they are dead, not from this distance, and she has the sinking feeling that there <em> will </em> be more by the time this is all over; but she sees more dead volffs than soldiers. Her heart longs to abandon the battlefield and to tend to her fallen comrades, but she holds herself still. <em> If </em> they are dead, she will not throw their lives away by abandoning her place. She will not stop fighting, not until the threat has been destroyed. </p><p>Onwards, she continues. She manages to remain mostly unscathed, for (as with the few others working on support) whenever a volff begins to head their way, an attack is unleashed to draw them away. It is their battle plan, followed precisely. The strongest fighters draw the attention, whilst the healers remain safe on the sidelines to help where they can. </p><p>But it seems as though there are <em> more </em> volffs, and while their bodies, stained in the white froth that foams at their lips, litter the battlefield, it does not seem as if the threat is being diminished. </p><p>So Sharla switches tactics. She is more than aware of her weaknesses, her shortcomings. She knows that she is not the most fearsome foe, but she <em> knows </em> that she is much stronger than people give her credit for. </p><p>She shoots, the booming of her rifle ripping through the air as her fingers, slick with sweat, slip on the trigger. She knows her fingers will be bruised from where her hands have gripped so tight against her rifle, like a black-purple band around her knuckles, but she cannot find the energy to care. If she survives this, she will no doubt pay the price for her recklessness. But it is this recklessness that could let her survive. (<em> Reyn is rubbing off on you, </em> she mumbles to herself, smiling despite it all as she spies the briefest flash of red hair from afar)</p><p>Ether swirls around her, the smell of gunpowder, the stench of blood twisting amongst the gruesome howls of the volffs. </p><p>The volffs numbers are <em> finally </em> dwindling. Sharla feels a bolt of confidence shoot through her at the sight. A wild cry erupts from her lips as she unleashes a powerful stream of bullets at a nearby volff. She watches as its head is torn clean off, the heat of her rifle only magnifying the force of the shots. Blood oozes from the empty stump, charred muscle and splintered bone dripping out from the exposed flesh. It wanders around for a few seconds, as if the creature is not yet aware that its head is no longer a part of its body, and then it collapses in a blood-soaked heap onto the ground. </p><p>The sight of it is sickening, but she cannot help the rush of elation that shoots through her. In a twisted way, the death of this creature - mangled and riddled with infectious disease - is another possible life saved back in the colony. </p><p>She cannot help but pity these creatures, however. For they are beyond control; beyond suppressing. The wiring in them has been altered, the sickness corrupting their mind. Perhaps it is the softness within her, the gentle touch that she had once been told to quell and ignore. </p><p>The world can be brutal like that; for these volffs' deaths are unavoidable. Like in all matters of war, of battle, a necessary evil to ensure that they can keep on living. It is fight or die, unfortunately, and Sharla would do anything in her power to ensure their colony is kept safe. (Never again will her home be reduced to rubble, never again will children cry and howl as they are stripped from their parents' grasps, forced to safety to escape what is only certain death)</p><p>But Sharla keeps shooting, her rifle growing hotter and hotter still, her hands blistering at the edges; the skin lifting and peeling off in thin strips of flesh. She ignores the pain, continues fighting. She has gone beyond the point of needing to cool down, her rifle now burning so much that she can barely even feel the pain. Adrenaline courses through her; numbs the blisters on her hand and envelopes her in a strange sort of calm. A calm that enables her to think clearly, for the pathways in her mind to be unlocked and for her focus to turn into fury. </p><p>She can see Reyn from across the battlefield, the attention of four volffs currently residing on him. Sharla can see the scratches on his arm, the deep welts oozing with blood. His leg too. Deep crimson seeps through the metal armour of his trousers, like rust on metal, dull in the waning light. </p><p>She reloads her rifle, quickly loading in some new ether shells, and releases a bullet of healing into the air above him. Even from this distance, she can see how the wounds begin to close; the deep red turning into a blistered pink. Blood still drips off of his arms, down his fingers; but the injuries are healed; only the faintest of scars remaining. </p><p>He looks over at her, their eyes meeting from across the wisps of smoke and ether, and he smiles.</p><p>A moment passes, a time which Sharla takes advantage of to try and vent some heat from her rifle; but just as the clutch is released Reyn's face falls. </p><p>He screams her name, loud and clear and like thunder and lightning amidst the fray, and Sharla whips her head around, hair frazzled and sweat-slicked to her forehead, only to meet the eyes of another.</p><p>These eyes are not like Reyn's. Not brown and warm like summer days and spring mornings, not honey gold, outlined in the very centre with a ring of sunlight. These eyes are jet black. They do not glisten, instead it appears as if they absorb the light itself. Like a black hole, a deep pit, the brightness disappears amidst its steely gaze. As if the stars have been sucked out of the night sky, leaving only an endless span of shadow. </p><p>Sharla swears under her breath, she's still halfway through venting her rifle, there's nothing she can do. Her hands fumble on the clutch, fumble with the controls of her rifle as she does everything in her power to speed up the process.</p><p>She knows such an effort is in vain. She <em> knows </em> her way around her weapon like she knows herself. This is her fault for refusing to cool it down earlier, her fault for being so foolhardy and reckless to <em> continue </em> fighting when she had known she needed to take a step back. But she had ignored the signs, ignored the warnings, and now she was paying the price for her recklessness. Her rifle is automated, like all of the standard issues in the force. Once you start cooling it down, you can't really <em> stop </em> it. The hot steam that billows from the clutch could melt her flesh down to the bone. There's nothing she can do but <em> wait. </em> </p><p>By the time her rifle is cool enough to use again, by the time she has a hold in it, her fingers resting on the trigger, it is far too late. </p><p>The volff leaps towards her, maw wide open as it approaches, drool and flem flicking like sick starlight from its bleeding gums. She shoots at it in wild abandon, her aim poor and the power of her shots weakened in a desperate final attempt. </p><p>The volff doesn't even flinch. </p><p>She throws her rifle to the ground, she has no use for it now. There is no saying what will happen next; so she might as well run. She doesn't want her rifle hindering her movements, and if there's no way she can <em> kill </em> the volff, then she's going to have to try and survive for as long as she can until somebody else can kill it for her.</p><p>Her eyes deftly flicker across the other soldiers. There are two more bodies on the ground, a lot of blood - Sharla can't tell whether it's more volff or homs. There's oil slicked on the ground, even a few feathers from the wings of the High Entia. The soldiers are all otherwise occupied. She spies Reyn from afar, his eyes trained on her as he desperately tries to push through his own attackers. He's shouting, calling out her name, and he is so <em> loud </em> but Sharla can barely hear him over the thumping of her own heart.</p><p>The volff attacks, but she manages to slip out of the way. Its mouth had been aiming for her leg, the meat of her thigh, but the creature barely misses. By some miracle, Sharla is quick enough to evade. However, her victory is only short-lived for the volff manages to catch her with its claws, forming a deep, jagged gash in her leg that has her gasping for air. </p><p>It <em> hurts </em> . It hurts like hell, but Shala has felt worse pain than this. She has felt <em> much </em> worse. She can ignore the pain, ignore the sting of blood as the muscle and tissue is torn, but what she cannot ignore is the way that she is now <em> hindered. </em> She has been slowed, her chances of being able to evade are dropping at an alarming rate. She wills herself to not limp, to keep her gait straight and to distribute her weight evenly on each leg. She can't, though. The pain that shoots through her is stabbing, something that she couldn't overlook; no matter how hard she tries. </p><p>The volff skids across the floor, its heavy paws like rumbling applause against the blood-soaked ground. Its claws slice into the dirt below, half-dead grass matting its fur, green snaking up to a wolfish grin that has Sharla's heart in her throat.</p><p>She tries to move out of the way, tries to retreat, but even she knows that this is it. </p><p>The volff charges forwards, its mouth easing open and its rotting teeth luminescent in the shadows that have fallen. It looks as if it is smiling, as if it is laughing, and Sharla sort of wants to laugh too. </p><p>After all they have been through, after everything she has done, <em>this</em> could be the end. She had helped kill a <em>god</em> and she might die here, against a pack of <em>fucking</em> <em>volffs</em>. </p><p>So she evades, as best as she can, but it is not enough. The volff's maw sinks into her side, teeth digging into her flesh. She thinks she screams, although she's not sure. There's too much going on, her vision is swimming and she wants to be sick. She knows she coughs, she gasps, for she feels warmth spill from her lips, thick and red and tasting of copper coins. </p><p>There's a loud bang, one that shoots through the air; a rippling of gunpowder and smoke, and suddenly there is blood that is not her own spattered across her face, dripping down her legs. </p><p>The volff's eyes droop, its hold lessens, and the creature drops lifelessly to the ground. </p><p>She looks at it for a moment, looks around at the battle that's still happening, feels the blood oozing from her side and tastes the blood filling up her mouth. Her legs begin to shake, she can feel her strength beginning to wane, and then she too drops to the floor. </p><p>Part of her wants to stay here, wants to lie here and close her eyes and just <em> sleep. </em> But she knows that if she succumbs to such fatigue, she will not wake up. She almost lets such thoughts take her away, lets herself slip into the abyss, but then her mind flickers to Reyn. She thinks of him, thinks of his hand in hers, his soft smile on lazy mornings, the way she wakes up to his arms wrapped tightly around her, their legs entangled and him snoring softly, his mouth open. The drool that pools on the pillow beside him, the gentleness of his face, relaxed and smooth in sleep. She forces her eyes to remain open, forces herself to think through the veil of pain that overshadows her sight. She refuses to die here, not when there is still so much she has to live for. </p><p>Her fingers push at the wound, apply pressure on the deep puncture marks the volff's fangs had made. She uses one hand to push against them, to try and stem the blood flow, and the other one feels around. </p><p>The wound is a bad one. A dangerous one, but she does not believe it has punctured any of her organs - not enough to cause serious damage. Not enough to kill her. </p><p>If she had her rifle… </p><p>Her vision is swimming, the pain overtaking all of her usual senses, but still she tries to hold on. She can't let herself slip, can't lose her hold on the life she has ahead of her. </p><p>There's shouting from around her, movement. The howling of the volffs' sick cries blending in with the sound of weapons clashing, of teeth tearing flesh and metal tearing muscle. Her eyes are beginning to slip closed, her vision is going blurrier and blurrier by the second; but she can still see the faint outline of her rifle. A mishmash of bleeding colours against the dark spots of her vision. </p><p>There's another shout, and then there are hands on her shoulders, holding her steady. Warm hands, large hands. </p><p>"<em> Reyn, </em> " she mumbles, her voice slurred and heavy; thick like molasses in her throat. She looks up at him, her muscles burning, but she <em> has </em> to see him. </p><p>He is blurry, a flash of tan skin and fiery hair, crimson on his arms and face, but it is <em> Reyn </em>.</p><p>She smiles, she can feel the cool air against her teeth, the way her cheeks ache with even such a small movement. Reyn is saying things, she is certain, but she cannot focus on him. She can't understand.</p><p>The blurry image of Reyn dithers about a bit, she can feel the warmth of his hands ghosting over her arms, hear a sharp intake of breath as she shifts her about, reveals the gaping wound in her side. </p><p>His hands are on hers, adding pressure to the wound where her own hands simply will not cover it. She can feel him trembling against her, feel the shake of his hands jostle at the torn flesh of her wound. </p><p>She looks down, looks at his hands over hers. Both dark and tan, one set smaller and slender; the others large and broad. They're both stained red. Like deep red wine, the one they had shared on the night of their wedding; the one that Reyn had taken a sip of, his face instantly contorting into disgust as he tried to subtly spit it back out into the glass. He'd never had a taste for red wine, even now he still couldn't drink the stuff. She remembers that day and although her vision is blurred like frosted glass, she sees such memories crystal clear in her mind. She had thought, back then, that day would have been the happiest day of her life. It was her wedding day, of course. </p><p>She'd been wrong with that though. A wedding was just a ceremony, and the days and weeks and months that had followed the ceremony had proved that Reyn would always surprise her, always make her happier than she could have ever possibly imagined. </p><p>But Reyn is looking at her like that. Although his image is blurred, like a ripple through water, she can see the pained frown on his face; the deep creases that form at his brows, deep like a grave without a coffin. </p><p>"Sharla," he's saying. She can barely hear him over the pounding in her head. "Sharla, what can I do?" </p><p>His hands are warm on hers, his eyes soft and sorrowful and glistening with tears that threaten to fall. Reyn does not cry very often, Sharla knows this for a fact; for although he is emotional, although expresses himself freely and without abandon, he only cries at his lowest points. </p><p>He is crying now though, and Sharla wills her mind to focus; to work through the pain.</p><p>"My rifle," she gasps, her words stuttering between ragged breaths. She swallows deeply, shifts her hands until she is grasping Reyn's. They slide together, slick with her own blood. "I need my rifle."</p><p>She looks over to the smears of grey and green and cobalt blue, the blurred profile of her rifle lying only a few feet away. Reyn follows her gaze and Sharla can feel him tense against her. He says something, but Sharla cannot decipher it. She feels her eyelids begin to droop but she forces herself to stay conscious. </p><p>"I won't…" blood rises to her lips, creeping up her throat, and he spits it out. "I won't die, not right now- I just…" she coughs. Deep, wrenching coughs. Ones that sound wet, that splutter up more and more blood, thick and goopy as it mixes with her saliva. "I <em> need </em> my rifle."</p><p>And so Reyn gets up, squeezes her hands one final time before he merges with the rest of the world, becomes just a shadow high above her. Sharla is vaguely aware of the battle still raging around her. Reyn shouldn't be with her, she shouldn't be helping her when the threat has still not been removed; but he is. </p><p>Although he is only gone for what is, in reality, a few seconds; it feels like much longer to Sharla.</p><p>Her head is raised blearily, dozy eyes scouting the remainder of the battlefield. The volffs have been drawn further outfield and, although her vision is hazy, she thinks that things look alright. She can see the towering Machina soldiers some distance away, the fluffy silverlit wings of the high entian soldiers, the explosion of light and colour that the nopon seem to bring with them. She can see other soldiers too, like her. On the ground, red coating half their bodies.</p><p>But they have people with them too, she realises. </p><p>There are still the volff, they are still being attacked, but they are <em> winning. </em> Winning enough that there are lives that can still be saved, that fighters can be sacrificed to ensure the injured manage to hold on. </p><p>She cannot tell how many are dead, how many are injured, how many are still fighting; but she feels a swell of pride rise within her at the knowledge that this mission has been a success. If nothing else, the threat will be disposed of. The colony will be safe. </p><p>But she is still dying. </p><p>The pain is growing worse now, the last remnants of her adrenaline being to fade away. The urge to close her eyes and sleep becomes almost irresistible, but in those few seconds that Reyn is gone; she forces herself to stay awake. She can't give up. Not now.</p><p>There is still so much she has to see, so much she yet wants to do. This can't be her time, she will <em> not </em> die here. She <em> can't </em> , she <em> won't. </em> </p><p>And then Reyn is by her side once more, her rifle held in his strong hands, him kneeling before her, face to face as she reaches out for it with weak arms.</p><p>She takes it from him, instantly dropping it to the floor as the weight becomes too much. She curses, but she <em> knows </em> what she needs to do.</p><p>Her hands work on finding the ether shells; her most powerful ones, the ones that will most certainly heal enough that she will not die here. She will still be injured, still need much time to recover, but she will not <em> die. </em> </p><p>A task that should have been easy, yet her fatigue and her pain have rendered her limbs useless. She finds the shells but she cannot reload them into her rifle; her fingers are like lead, they will not move as she wishes them to. It is as if she has been disconnected from her body, her mind drifting away someplace else as the rest of her is left to bleed out on this sickness of battlefield. </p><p>She finds herself panicking, her fingers fumbling more and more and more as she still can't slot in her ether shells, she still can't manage to get her hands on the trigger and to raise her gun skyward. </p><p>But then Reyn's hands are on hers, stilling her panicked movements. His hands do shake, they tremble with a mighty force, a nervous rumble of thunder that makes Sharla want to cry - or perhaps she already is crying? She isn't sure. </p><p>"What do I need to do?" He asks. "How do I do it?"</p><p>Sharla's breath catches in her throat, and it's not just from the pain.</p><p>Reyn sounds… <em> broken. </em> His voice wavers in a way Sharla has never heard it before and his hands won't stop shaking. She can see the redness of his eyes, even with her vision blurry, and the pink of tear tracks marked down his face. </p><p>He holds her hands up, a movement that leaves her breathless, and she ignores the way her muscles burn in protest. Her fingers smooth down the angle of his cheekbones, she taps against his jaw; like butterfly steps pressed out in morse code. She wipes away his tears, the blood on her hands smearing stained crimson across his cheeks.</p><p>He doesn't seem to mind though.</p><p>She holds her hands there for a moment, simply smooths away the tear stains with her blood-soaked fingers, traces the arcs and dips and shadows of his face with a weak tenderness. </p><p>But then she cannot hold her hand up anymore, and it falls from his face, slips down the broadness of his chest until it rests awkwardly on the floor, barely touching his knees. </p><p>She closes her eyes for the very briefest of seconds, takes a deep breath, and then opens them once more. </p><p>"The shells," she groans, voice weak and haggard, as she motions at the ether shells she had collected earlier, the ones stained with a little blue heart and then a little pink heart surrounding that. To her, it just looks like a pink and blue smear, but she remembers making the marks on the shells herself last night. She is certain that this will be powerful enough to heal her, powerful enough to ensure she survives. </p><p>"You need to… the plate," her fingers come to rest on her rifle, clumsily trying to open the latch. She can't get ahold of it but she looks up at Reyn, pleading in her eyes. He understands, because of course he does, and soon his fingers are brushing past her own, gently pushing them aside as he undoes the latch with a sharp click. </p><p>There's a shout from afar, a particularly nasty howl from a volff, and Reyn looks up.</p><p>"You shouldn't be here," she says. "You should help them."</p><p>Reyn scoffs, although there is no humour in his voice. "And leave you here?"</p><p>"I'll be fine," she protests. "I can- I can do it myself."</p><p>Part of her expects Reyn to laugh again, or to raise his eyebrows in disbelief or to look at her in that way she has always been looked at. That kind of dismissiveness she has grown used to as a medic in the field; a <em> female </em> medic nonetheless. </p><p>He doesn't though, because he has <em> never </em> looked at her like that.</p><p>Instead, his gaze softens; he holds the ether shells in his hands as he tries to slot them in, but his eyes are trained on Sharla. </p><p>"I know you could. But I want to do it. Just to make sure- just so I know you're alright."</p><p>She swallows then, blinks hard. Rubs her lips together, tastes the coppery blood coating her lips. Reyn grunts as he tries to force the shell in, for it doesn't quite slot in the compartment. </p><p>"It's the wrong way around," she says. "And you're wrong. I couldn't heal myself. Not right now. I just- I don't want to be <em> weak </em>." </p><p>Reyn looks down at her then, slightly bemused. </p><p>"You could do it. You can do <em> anything </em> Sharla, you're the strongest person I know."</p><p>She laughs at that, her breath cut off in a pained gasp as her wound is jostled. She coughs, splutters, and more blood oozes out of her mouth. She heaves, her entire body trembling, and it feels as if her lungs are shifting, as though with each rattling cough she forces her organs further and further up her throat. </p><p>There's a thudding sound as the ether shell slots in, the clutch quickly closed as Reyn's hands begin to shake more and more. </p><p>He'd managed to ebb his panic for those few moments, ebb the edge of hysteria that had risen within him, but it comes back at full force now. </p><p>"What do I do, Sharla? What do I do now? I don't- I'm sorry, I dunno how this thing works, I can't-"</p><p>She hisses, a sound that was supposed to be a shush but instead falls from her lips like a writhing serpent. "Like with Melia," she interrupts. "Makna Forest, you remember?" </p><p>He nods, once, his hands still trembling, as he raises the rifle skywards.</p><p>He's holding it all wrong, his hands aren't in the right place and Sharla knows that will weaken the bullet's power. It will still be enough, though. She <em> trusts </em> Reyn with this. She <em> knows </em> he will do a good job, even if he doesn't quite believe it himself. </p><p>"When you shoot it," she manages to grit out, her teeth now clenched as her pain only seems to grow worse and worse. "I will pass out. I'm not- that's not because I'm dead, but the ether-" she pauses, now is <em> not </em> the time for a science lesson. </p><p>"It makes you tired. Healing that fast. Just- shoot it, okay."</p><p>She pauses, swallows deeply and tastes blood. </p><p>"I'll be fine." </p><p>Reyn's finger finds the trigger, curls around it as he raises the gun to the heavens. </p><p>"You promise?"</p><p>"I promise."</p><p>The gun fires with an echoing bang, a rainbow of ether shooting high into the sky. Warmth floods Sharla's side, the skin beginning to close up and repair almost instantly. It hurts like a bitch, for healing this quickly is unnatural in every possible way, but she ignores the pain. </p><p>She looks up at Reyn, her eyes beginning to roll to the back of her head as fatigue claims her. "You did good," she smiles.</p><p>The last thing she sees before she passes out is Reyn's concerned gaze from far above.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. How Does Your Garden Grow (Coming Home, Slowly)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am.... sorry for the incredibly long wait. Mental health hit like a Truck and my motivation to finish editing this Died.</p>
<p>Since my absence, I've been putting real work into trying to improve my writing and lose some of that pretentiousness that seems to seep into all my works. This was actually written at the time of posting the first chapter and whilst I have eventually gotten round to making revisions and correcting (most) errors, I'm not entirely happy with this. </p>
<p>In 2021 I am planning to write a lot more - I have some big works in mind for these two, including other xenoblade fics. (and for various other fandoms) Apologies for this really not being all that great, especially after the long wait, but I did promise a kind reader on my tumblr that I would have the next chapter posted before 2020 ended. I hope you still enjoy this regardless. </p>
<p>I did have plans for a third chapter, but I doubt I will complete it. The ending for this chapter works fine, but perhaps I will add on the third if I ever feel like it. </p>
<p>Sorry for the long note and the huge gap in updating, I hope you all enjoy this fic. And wishing all of my readers a happy holidays!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When she is conscious once more, the first thing she notices is the dull throb of pain in her side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's that artificial sort of pain; the one that's been numbed by drugs and medicine that makes Sharla feel as if she is half floating; as if her mind has become independent from her body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It still hurts, though. Although the pain is disconnected, she can still feel it - as though it has been pushed to the very back of her head. The burning of her muscles becomes an afterthought, something that can be ignored, but it is still there is nonetheless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next thing she becomes aware of is a heavy weight against her arm, half-crushing and yet not uncomfortable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, she draws her eyes open, her eyelashes half-gummed together. The light is low, but even still, she finds herself flinching from it. It burns at her eyes, makes her wince them shut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She flitters them open again, trying to get accustomed to it, as the weight on her arm shifts ever so slightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the world around her begins to fade into view, still slightly blurred at the edges, she instantly recognises where she is. The infirmary. She's familiar with this ward, familiar with this entire place. Yet unfamiliar with the weight resting upon her arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tries to turn herself to face the pressure but finds that she cannot move. It's the drugs no doubt; they make her </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> light and airy; like a feather caught on the wind. Made her limbs impossibly heavy; like balls of lead that leave her trapped on the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of herself wants to panic. Even as a medic herself, she understands the fear of awakening to the realisation that you can't move, that you can't even tilt your head. She's confused, tired, her memories are fuzzy and she feels as if she can't quite breathe properly. Right now, she would be telling her patients to breathe in slowly; to tap their fingers against the bed sheets until they feel grounded once more. Turns out, it's a lot easier to tell somebody what to do than do it yourself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>Reyn.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She can see the blurred image of his face in her mind. Her heart longs for him, deep fatigue running through her as she feels anxiety rise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She must shift, must make some noise of discontent, for the weight on her arm shifts. It moves against her, growing heavier and then lighter and then heavier again until eventually it is removed completely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her bare arm suddenly feels cold, a chill of goosebumps rising on her skin. She shivers, a sliver of silver moonlight falling over her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, from above, a shadow looms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The light shifts, the silvery light painting everything in icy greys. Illuminated in the gloom is dark skin, auburn hair. Familiar brown eyes with their ring of golden sunlight in the centre, a familiar smile; pink lips pulled up into a hesitant grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sharla?" He says, his voice thick and tired, ragged at the edges as though he had been crying. A raw quality to it that makes Sharla's heart ache. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"R-Reyn…" she manages to grit out, flinching at the sound of her own voice, cracked and broken. It's barely a growl in the darkness, but in the smothering silence of the ward, it is loud. Thunderous, the splutter of her voice like a boom of lightning in a storm-driven sky. She'll have to ask for a glass of water. Later, though. There are more important things as of now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's as if, at that moment, something in Reyn breaks. He leaps forwards, his hands on her cheeks, fingers stroking the shell of her ears before tangling in her hair. His hands move down her jaw, trace down the lines of her neck before coming to rest on her temples. Then his hands are replaced by his lips. Gentle kisses, as gentle as the flitter of a butterfly's wings, are placed across her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a desperation of sorts to them, a quiet sort of abandon to it all, Reyn kisses her as though this could be the last time; as if he had thought he would never get to kiss her again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's a dampness against her skin, one that is most certainly not from her. Reyn's tears drip down onto her face as he presses kisses against her forehead, down the bridge of her nose. His lips sweep across her cheekbones, pepper down the line of her jaw, linger on her cheeks. His breath is trembling, warm air jittery against her skin; cool on the dampness of his smudged tears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling away for the briefest moment, Sharla gets a good luck at him. She longs to hold her hand to his face, to wipe away his tears, smooth the furrow of his brow and to cup ever so carefully at his jaw; feel the faintest roughness of stubble rising to the soft skin of his cheekbones. She tries to move, but she finds that she cannot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even in the dreary light, she can see Reyn's eyes;  red, bloodshot. Lined with tears brighter than the moon, blue crystal against honey brown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes droop downwards, eyebrows furrowed and expression a mixture of both concern and fear, fatigue and despondency. But then he's kissing her; gentle as if he is made of glass, a press of his lips against her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She can taste salt, the lingering track of his tears. His lips are rough, chapped where he has bitten them, the skin uneven and bloody. She does not mind, though. With all of her remaining energy, she pushes up against him. She's exhausted, bone-tired, but she returns the kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes flutter shut, as if of their own accord, and it is not long before exhaustion truly begins to take over. There's a moment of silence, a moment where Sharla loses reality; where she begins to drift off to sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't think I was that bad at kissin'." Reyn's voice startles her back to the present, her eyes shooting open. He's smiling at her, laughter in his voice. It does not match the tear-stained cheeks or the watery eyes, but there is a light of golden flame that burns with him from within. Like the sunlight peeking through the windows come dawn, he glows out in light that bids the cool silver of the moon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry," she manages to mumble out, feeling a little bit embarrassed, a little bit guilty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn laughs again, a breathless sort of laugh that leaves him in an exhale of air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There's nothin' to be sorry for, Sharla." He says, shaking his head from side to side. His hair slips in front of his eyes, the longer strands at the front casting shadows down his nose. He pushes it back, his fingers stretching as he leans backwards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I should be the one apologisin', you need rest an' I'm keeping you awake." He brings his hands to her forehead once more, With careful fingers, he traces an invisible line across her brow; smooths down the hairs of her eyebrows with a gentle puff of air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She enjoys the touch, the warmth of his fingers against her cool skin, and she lets her eyes slip shut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you," Reyn says, his voice distant as she begins to lose consciousness. "I'm- I thought you- gods, Sharla. I love you so </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span> much." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even in her half-sleep state, his words are like comforting fire to her heart, sweet music to her ears. She opens her mouth, mumbles out the words that she knows so well, those four words that come to her naturally; like water trickling down from the clifftops. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you too," she whispers. She is not sure whether she actually says it, whether her words are spoken aloud; but she wills it with all her heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn has always had a strange knack for knowing exactly what she's thinking, exactly what she wants him to hear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something warm and soft replaces the stroke of his fingers, another gentle press of careful lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sharla slips off into a dreamless sleep; the shadows of her thoughts lit up by golden fire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>x</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she awakens the next day to the brightness of light slipping through the half-open blinds, she feels much more clear-headed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is still that fatigue, still sleep that her body so desperately craves, but she is awake once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The drugs are beginning to wear off, she realises with a grit of her teeth. While her thoughts are no longer so fuzzy, the sensations around her no longer blurred by a veil of frosted glass; the dull ebb of pain she had felt last night has grown tenfold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is the cost, she supposes. While she is more aware, less doped up on countless numbers of painkillers and ether, it has come at the cost of ignorance to the extent of her injuries. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her side hurts. It aches, a deep, throbbing pain that spikes with each and every breath she takes. One that makes her lungs sore. She is certain that she did not puncture any of her internal organs; not at least while she was conscious, but her body has obviously paid the price for her actions on that battlefield. While she can still breathe, the air she intakes never quite feels like enough. Like filling a glass half full, it is more than satisfactory but it is not quite enough to be normal. Not quite enough to make her feel any better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next thing she notices, a pain that is somehow worse than the one in her side, is that of her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She supposes, subconsciously, her own brain has dulled the pain of her side. It is, after all, the injury that had nearly killed her; the one that she had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span> about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had forgotten all about her hands. Forgotten she'd even injured them. She hadn't remembered until this morning when - much to her pleasure - she had realised that she could move her head, she could </span>
  <em>
    <span>move</span>
  </em>
  <span> her body. Not by much, and she most certainly could not stand or </span>
  <em>
    <span>walk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but she could carefully prop herself up (an action which hurts a heck of a lot, but at least she can </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>it) and inspect her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She regrets doing that now. Her hands had only really started to hurt once she realised just how badly she had burned them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The burns are severe, most certainly so. She has definitely received worse injuries from her rifle overheating, especially out on their grand adventure almost a decade ago. Some parts have been bandaged, others have not. There is the slight hint of red peeking through the lower end of her palms, where the bone is closest to the surface. A clear sign that her bandages need changing. Reyn will probably tie it too tight and, as she inspects the raggedly cut edges of the gauze, she's going to have to have a word with whoever tied these ones. They're certainly not up to her own standards. (Although perhaps that is some of her stubbornness seeping through - the thought of someone doing something for her that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be able to do for herself instantly sets her on edge)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She cannot see the wound in her side at this angle, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that when she is checked upon by a nurse or doctor, she will be a pain in their backside. She will want to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what's going on, and she'll want to see for herself exactly what they're going to do to her. Also, knowing her, she'll probably try to take control of the situation herself. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> being the one in charge - especially when it comes to her own body - and she detests the thought of letting other people look after her. Ironic, perhaps, considering her occupation, but if she can serve as a medic for the whole goddamn Colony she can certainly manage herself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is one of the things of their journey of so long ago that has never really left her. Shulk and Melia and Riki had known a few things about healing; but even then it had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> job, for the most part. She had stitched up her own wounds, threaded and sanitised the needle herself as she had sewn up gashes in her legs and sides. Dunban, to her endless amusement, had always found the sight of her doing such a thing absolutely disgusting. Reyn, too - although his stemmed more from a fear of needles than the sight of her sewing her own flesh back together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had grown accustomed to tending to herself, to looking after those around her and ensuring that they were all in the best condition for any unexpected fights they might face. Even nine years later, reliance on her own healing was something she'd never managed to truly let go of. It wasn't that she didn't trust the other nurses and doctors; she had trained under a few of the older ones and she had even trained some of the newer recruits herself, but she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>used</span>
  </em>
  <span> to handling these things on her own. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Used</span>
  </em>
  <span> to healing herself when anything wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides, she wasn't used to having such injuries herself. She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>support.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She would rarely be the person actually being attacked, and if she were it would only be the briefest of moments before the monsters' attentions were pulled somewhere else. If anything, she'd always thought of herself as reliable. Always able to help someone out in a pinch, always cool-headed enough to ensure she could take care of everyone else. A long-distance rifle user tends to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay away</span>
  </em>
  <span> from close contact with enemies. She's certainly had to use the butt of her rifle to bash a fair few monster-heads in but for the most part, she's in the background offering support while others more suited to taking hits draw attention in the front lines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn had been her opposite out in the field. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He'd</span>
  </em>
  <span> been the one who had given her the most grief. Whether it was from general clumsiness (even now, the time he broke one of his ribs sliding down the great ice slides in Valak Mountain was still something the rest of the gang would mock him with relentlessly) or the fact that he seemed to have zero self-preservation; (something which has steadily become less of a problem as he ages - it turns out saving the world </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> the passing of a decade had matured him up at least a little bit) Sharla was used to being the on </span>
  <em>
    <span>helping</span>
  </em>
  <span> others, not the one needing help in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Speaking of Reyn, Sharla can't see him anywhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The oddness that had permeated her thoughts earlier, the strange sensation that something had been missing… well, Reyn was nowhere to be seen. A brief spark of anxiety rises within her, just a smidge of panic. She had thought, perhaps, that Reyn would have still been by her side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her thoughts, however, are interrupted by the sound of heavy footfall. Quick steps that thunder down the hallway outside. The door is flung open with a bang, the footsteps thunderous now as Reyn storms into the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops, point-blank, as soon as his eyes fall on Sharla. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're awake." He says and in an instant his expression falls. Guilt pools in his eyes, drags down his thick eyebrows, giving him the sort of lost-puppy look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was here, I promise." He approaches her quickly, feet still loud on the linoleum floor. Resting beside her, his hand finding hers with a gentle squeeze. "I jus'..." he breaks off, a tint of red to his brown cheeks. "If you gotta go, you gotta go, y'know. An' I was desperate an' all. I'd been waitin' an' waitin', 'cause I was scared you'd wake up and I wouldn't be here, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sharla can't help it, she laughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I needed a piss, okay! An' you just happened to wake up while I was gone." Sharla continues laughing, but she stops herself as Reyn's kicked-puppy look grows tenfold. His face is split in guilt and he wrings his hands together as he averts his gaze from Sharla. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs, fondly, and reaches out for his hands. The movement is difficult, her muscles burn and the pressure of Reyn's hands against the skin of her palms is painful. She ignores it though and brings Reyn's hands up to her chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you, you idiot." She says, a smile in her voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then she drops his hands, her eyelashes fluttering low over her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I'm glad you're here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn's hands are on her face then, warm and large and rough. His fingers scratch under her chin, tilting her head upwards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course I'm here," he kisses her then, soft and chaste. it lingers for a moment, just the briefest of seconds, but it still has Sharla's skin feeling warm and her toes curling pleasantly under the bedsheets. "I love you too." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>x</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don't talk about it for the days when Sharla must stay in the hospital. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had lost a lot of blood, something she was already aware of before her doctor (a younger recruit whom she only knew in passing) had even told her. He was nice, pleasant. Not quite as harsh as some of the older medics could be; but perhaps a bit of a pushover. He had gone a peculiar shade of green as Sharla had chewed him out for his apparent inability to tie bandages correctly and - as Reyn makes sure to mention liberally - it seems as if the poor boy is terrified of her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sharla was… aware of her stubbornness. Of her own self-sense of reliance, and her confidence in her own abilities. She had a tendency to not </span>
  <em>
    <span>doubt</span>
  </em>
  <span> this doctor, but to… disregard his requests. Perhaps she could be quite brusque, sometimes. Or bad-tempered, although she did try to squash such feelings down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn laughs at her for it. Says she's worse than he was whenever he would get injured. Sharla vehemently disagrees with this; although when she finds herself trying to walk down the ward without her crutches, only to get stuck halfway down and then have to get Reyn to carry her back, she thinks he </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a point. Not that she'd ever admit that to his face. She'd never hear the end of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her doctor </span>
  <em>
    <span>tells</span>
  </em>
  <span> her to not push herself, especially because the more she pushes herself the less likely she is to go home. She's still not stable enough for it to be safe for her at home, and as much as she resents that fact, she has to agree with it. Still, she tends to try and bend the rules when she can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She never remembers being quite like this. Perhaps some of Reyn's foolhardiness has rubbed off on her. She tells Reyn this late one night (for although he technically shouldn't be here at this time, visiting hours had ended ages ago, he just… refused to leave, and when the poor lad changing Sharla's bandages had protested, the icy glare she had sent his way soon killed off such ideas) and his face does something quick and pained before he schools himself into a forced laugh, a brittle smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She asks him what's wrong, but he waves her off with a twist of his hand. "Nothing," he had said; but Reyn has always been an awful liar and Sharla can read him like an open book. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hadn't pushed though; not at the time. There would be moments later where she could ask. Moments where he might tell her anyway, completely unprompted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Sharla grows sick of the infirmary very quickly. Her side hurts too much to sit up for prolonged periods of time; she still can't walk properly (although she keeps trying to make a break for it, much to Reyn's half amusement and half concern) and she hates using her crutches. She doesn't like being injured and she has half the mind to simply get her ether rifle and speed up the process, which he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> she should </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> do. Ether healing should really only be reserved until there's no other opportunity. It's exceedingly dangerous, it pushes the body beyond its capabilities, and it never </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> heals anything. Not like a few weeks of bed-rest will. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Sharla stews in the hospital bed, restraining her most unreasonable thoughts every time she's poked and prodded with needles and IV's and drips. Her blood levels are still lower than she (and her doctor) would like, and her wound is still at great risk for infection. There's also concern about the nerves on her hands; which explains why they still hurt so goddamn bad, much worse than Sharla ever remembers them hurting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All in all, she's been here for four days and there's no doubt that she's going to be here for another week until she's allowed to go home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go home. Not just because it's more comfortable, because she feels safer there and she just wants to sleep in her own bed and eat at her own kitchen table; (if she could even </span>
  <em>
    <span>get there</span>
  </em>
  <span>) but because every morning she wakes up to a weight at her uninjured side. Reyn, hunched over beside her on a rickety old chair. His back hunched uncomfortably and his head pressed ever so carefully against her hip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is no way that he is comfortable, no way that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoys</span>
  </em>
  <span> sleeping like this, all hunched up and awkwardly positioned by her side. Every morning, he wakes up with a groan, his hands on the base of his spine as he leans back; popping the bones with a grunt. His shoulders are stiff and tense, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>refuses</span>
  </em>
  <span> to admit it to Sharla, who begs him to just go home and sleep there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He refuses to leave her side, aside from trips to the loo and showers. There are the beginnings of a beard growing in, rough stubble that scratches against Sharla's cheeks when he kisses her. He never usually lets it grow this long, he's adamant that a beard would never suit him ("Makes me feel like Dunban", he'd told her. "Also… </span>
  <em>
    <span>old.</span>
  </em>
  <span>") but Sharla kind of… likes it. Well, she's pretty certain Reyn could pull </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> off in her eyes, but she likes him like this. All versions of him. Happy and tired and angry and sad. She just </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, and she wishes he'd just go home and get a proper night of sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tells him again and again until she honestly grows annoyed at herself for telling him to just go home, and every single time he looks down at her, his hair flopping over his eyes and a dishevelled, lopsided grin worn on his face. "I'll go home when you're coming home with me. So, if you stop tryin' to go to the loo by yourself and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask</span>
  </em>
  <span> for help, then maybe we'll both get home quicker." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every single time he says that she is certain her face goes the most unflattering shade of red. She still can't… do a lot of things, with her mobility so reduced. Standing up and sitting down are the worst; and although it's not </span>
  <em>
    <span>embarrassing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, per se (she's a </span>
  <em>
    <span>medic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she is fully aware of the limitations many of her own patients will face, as well as her own limitations) but she still </span>
  <em>
    <span>detests</span>
  </em>
  <span> having to ask someone to take her to the toilet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Reyn stays with her, no matter how much she complains, and even though she constantly tells him to leave, she can't be angry that he's sticking by her side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He'd used up all his time off to stay here, taken all the sick days he had left to make sure he'd be here, by her side. And there he sits, hand in hers, pressure gentle where the burns on her hands are still healing, and they sit and talk the day away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She thinks that it is some miracle that even after all these years of knowing one another, even after all these years of dating and these wonderful years they've spent married, they can still just </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk.</span>
  </em>
  <span> About nothing, for hours, they can sit there together and just enjoy each others' company. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn is interesting to talk to. He does not think about things in the usual, plain sort of way. Where Sharla - and many others - have thoughts in lines, brains that follow linear patterns and organised reasoning, Reyn's mind is chaos. He is perhaps the definition of thinking outside the box, and although he may occasionally spout the most ridiculous things, he is smarter than many might give him credit for. He's certainly not smart in </span>
  <em>
    <span>academics.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He would fail to comprehend what is considered common knowledge, with almost no retainment of history or science or maths. He does not care about what he cannot see, what cannot be changed. He lives in the present, and his thoughts represent that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has a certain simplicity to his mind that some people mistake for stupidity. It is no such thing. Instead, he merely says things how they are. He lives in the moment, allows himself to be carefree and worry-free. When Sharla feels stress tether her down, the weight of the world piling on her shoulders, it is Reyn who cuts her loose, who sets her free. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She is thirty-one years old now. She will be thirty-two later this year. While that is certainly not </span>
  <em>
    <span>old,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she is much older than she once was. Reyn is twenty-eight, yet even though a decade had passed, she had never felt any older. Reyn made her feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>young,</span>
  </em>
  <span> light and free as though she could do anything she ever wanted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She loves spending time with him. She loves him </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> much. Long ago, she had thought that she would never be this happy with somebody else, that she would never again find love and joy in her life. She had thought that Gadolt had been her one chance, and when he had died- she had thought that would be it. That she could never be lucky enough to find someone else who made her just as happy, who loved her just as much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, for his sake, she tries her hardest to quell her stubbornness. She asks for help when she needs to go to the loo - even though she detests every moment of it - and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>tries</span>
  </em>
  <span> her hardest to not make a break for it every time she's left alone in the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn also catches her trying to bribe one of the other nurses to go and secretly get her ether rifle, which he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> happy about. Or, more precisely, he found the whole thing hilarious, but he'd shaken his head at Sharla; completely incredulous, as she'd lain in that damn hospital bed and tried to convince him that she needed her rifle for things that definitely were </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> healing up her side and her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, for the most part, time in the infirmary passes in a lackadaisical manner. However, there is a storm cloud brewing over them. Sharla knows Reyn is worried, that he is stressed, she can feel it in the tenseness of his hand in hers. See it in the furrow of his brow. He is not fond of places like this, where everything is clinical and clean; not lived in, as there is no decoration, no homeliness. This place is built for function, and its functionality can be felt in its white-washed walls, the floors that always smell of disinfectant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, for the moment, he does not say anything to her. He just sits by her side, for as long as he possibly can, and they enjoy their time together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sharla's injury is healing quickly. It will be a while before she will be allowed out to work every day, certainly a while before she'll ever be sent back out into the field, but the day when she will be allowed to return home is coming closer and closer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The day that her and Reyn will eventually talk about what had happened (Reyn had his own fears, his own anxieties; scars left over from the war they had won long ago) is getting closer too, and Sharla is apprehensive to that moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But for now, they enjoy the simplicity of what they have. The structure of this hospital life, of the meals that come at the same time every day, of the order and cleanliness. The lack of chaos and fun. It gives them something to focus on, something to look out for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, this is only temporary. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>x</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A week passes and Sharla is - to her eventual relief - discharged from the hospital. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doctors are thrilled to see her leave. Partly because she is stable; her blood levels are balanced and it's increasingly unlikely that her wounds will become infected. The other part is because she is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible</span>
  </em>
  <span> patient. An awful patient who had, by this point, been seen to by almost every doctor they had in the infirmary. She refuses to believe that she could possibly be a worse patient than Reyn, although she's quite scared of the honest answer to that question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Regardless, she is taken home by Reyn, who helps her get in and out of her wheelchair, pushes her down through the whitewashed halls and out into the sunlight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They return home, their garden looking a little worse for wear (nothing that Reyn can't fix in a few weeks time) and their windowsills covered in the thinnest layer of dust. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing Sharla does once the door closes behind them is climb out of her wheelchair, intent on opening the windows to dispel the stale air stewing in their half-abandoned house, only to be struck by a sudden twang of pain, and to fall to her knees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn is there, instantly. Leaping by her side as though he's been shocked. He's panicking, hands touching her everywhere as he tries to assess the damage, barely a tickle on her sides as his fingers flitter over the wound bandages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm fine," she grits out, feeling slightly foolish. She's a medic, she should really know what to do and what not to do in her current condition; but she hates being stuck in one place. Hates feeling like there's nothing she can do to help. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She's exhausted and tired and she's bleary from all the painkillers she has to take and she doesn't even realise she's crying until Reyn's hands are on her face, wiping away her tears. To his credit, he doesn't say anything. He simply lifts her up, bridal style, and carries her over to their bedroom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She yelps in surprise, a chocked sob turning into a surprised squeal as the ground suddenly disappears under her. She swats at him, her hands lingering on his biceps as she begins to laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything always seems so easy with Reyn. She's already sick to hell of being injured, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> hurting. She's sick of being stuck in bed all day, having to watch the world pass on without her as she has to try and stay and </span>
  <em>
    <span>heal. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But perhaps things aren't all bad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn carefully spreads her out onto their cool bedsheets. They need washing, really. They're slightly musty, slightly stale for they have not been used in a while. But they're soft and familiar and if she breathes in deeply, past the faint smell of dust, she can catch the comforting scent of Reyn. The faintest smell that had greeted her with every new morning; of sunlight filtering through the half-closed curtains and the sunbeams dancing on Reyn's dark skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Go to sleep, Sharla," Reyn says, before placing a kiss against her forehead, fingers smoothing the skin of her cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls back, but Sharla wraps her fingers around his wrists, ignores the tingling sensation of her injured palms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stay with me?" She asks, and Reyn smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Like you even had to ask."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>x</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Sharla next wakes up, it is just before dusk has fallen. The room is illuminated in waning light, the muggy sort of darkness that begins to settle just before sunset. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She groans, trying to roll herself over onto her side before she's interrupted by a stabbing sort of pain in her side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she forgot about that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are hands on her shoulder then, dark eyes looking into her own. Reyn looks down at her, concern writ plain on her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You okay?" He asks, his voice still laden with sleep. He must have only just woken up then, too. She nods in reply, not quite trusting herself to speak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Need more painkillers, probably. I, uh, think I left them by the door." He takes one of Sharla's hands in his own, careful to apply pressure to the bits that are not still injured and blistering. He raises her hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles - a ridiculous gesture that still has Sharla's heart thumping in her chest, and then he retreats; his footsteps quick and still somehow loud on the carpeted floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's back before Sharla can even notice he's gone, his face flushed the slightest shade of red. He'd ran through the house to find them, then. Rather than just walked, slowly, as a normal person would. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds the bottle up to his face, far too close because he still refuses to wear his damn glasses. He wouldn't be able to read it anyway, even if his eyesight was perfect. Sharla's been trying to get medicine bottles to be re-labelled for years. It's hell to read anyway, and that's disregarding those with poor sight and reading disabilities. Reyn - who has both - never really stands with a chance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Give it here," she says, not unkindly, as Reyn comes so sit beside her. She rests a hand on his thigh, makes a slight noise and Reyn seems to understand what she means.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shifts himself, sitting on the bed until his back rests against the headboard. Then, with a careful precision that - for all his clumsiness - only Reyn is capable of, he lifts her up to a sitting position. His hands are gentle as he moves her gingerly, positioning her until she sits between his parted legs. With a huff, she leans back into him, letting her eyes slip closed for just a moment as Reyn rests his chin atop of her head. He's warm, he's always warm, and he smells of home and comfort. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then, with a nudge from Reyn, Sharla opens her eyes once more, She squints at the medicine bottle, her own vision still slightly blurred from sleep, as she quickly reads the label. She recognises the pills immediately, and she pours two out into her hand, swallows them dry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I dunno how you do that," Reyn says. When Sharla tilts her head up to meet his gaze, he looks at her like she's… wonderful. Like she's the most brilliant person Reyn has ever seen. She can't help but blush under such a stare. It's only a couple of pills, after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just because you need a whole gallon of water to swallow them, doesn't mean we all do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Even then, I can't always get 'em down." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at her again, still looking at her in such wonderment that Sharla wonders what she had done to deserve such a life, but then his expression darkens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sharla sighs, for she knows what is coming before he even opens his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You knew this was coming, right?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She leans against him, snuggles into him one last time before she knows what will come next. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Reyn is shifting her again, swapping their positions until it is her who is propped up against the headboard. Reyn takes the space opposite her, making the bed dip and creak in protest as he flops himself down, cross-legged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They look at one another for a moment, Reyn opening his mouth and then closing it, Sharla trying not to fidget with the torn skin of her hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, in perfect synch, they both speak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry." Their voices blurt out in unison. Sharla furrows her brows in confusion, Reyn's eyes blow wide in shock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What're you sorry for?" He asks, voice cracking with incredulity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's my fault I got injured," Sharla begins, taking a deep breath. "I put the entire team at risk because I… I got too hot-headed. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> my own limits yet I blatantly ignored them. I kept going when I should have stopped. I-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nah. That ain't it." Reyn cuts across her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry," he interjects. To his credit, he looks slightly sheepish. "I don't wanna interrupt but that's just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at Sharla then, really looks at her. As if he can see anything and everything about her. It makes her feel naked, vulnerable, although she does not mind feeling like this. Not when she is with Reyn. It is… comforting, to know that she trusts Reyn so completely. Trusts him as she trusts herself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>fault. My job is to make sure you don't get hit, an' I was too distracted with my own thing that I didn't even realise you were in trouble. I should 'ave been there, I should 'ave gotten there </span>
  <em>
    <span>quicker</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If I'd- if I were stronger, you wouldn't have gotten hit."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Reyn-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No! I ain't gonna let you blame yourself about this! You almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>died</span>
  </em>
  <span> an' I made a promise."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks, extra hard, his eyes bright in the dusklight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I made a promise when I married you, up on that altar. But also long before that. I promised… to look out for you, t'make sure nothing ever happened to you; back in that central factory. An I-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He buries his head in his hands, before tugging his fingers through his hair. His movements are harsh, uncaring, and he pulls on the longer threads of his hair as if he could tear them out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought you were gonna die there. After everythin' we did, I thought that- an' gods, I dunno how you do it Sharla. You're so strong, stronger than I ever could be." He suddenly seems to deflate, as if all the air within him has been expelled at once. He falls forward, forehead resting on Sharla's shoulder as he sighs deeply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's not your fault, Reyn. I-" she doesn't quite know what to say, what to do. She still blames herself, but she knows that such self-criticism will get them nowhere. So, instead, she leans into Reyn's hold, snakes her arms around his waist and brings him closer to her. The pain in her side is still there, still throbbing slightly, and the palms of her hands itch. She ignores it though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a few moments, they sit like that. In one another's company, Reyn's face buried in the dip of her collarbone, and Sharla's fingers carefully tracing the ridges of muscle in Reyn's back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, however, they pull apart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reyn's eyes are red-stained, and Sharla is certain that hers look much the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know I can't protect you from everything, no matter how hard I try. It just… it ain't possible." He holds her face in his hands, fingertips carefully tilting up the very edge of her jaw. "I promise you though, I'll be by your side for as long as I can. No matter what happens, I'll be here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She leans up to him, kisses him softly. His lips are sweet, they taste of sugary coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you," she says, a smile on her lips. She whispers it against his skin, at the very edge of his lips. Reyn cocks his head, the long pieces of his head slipping down to tickle against Sharla's cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you too," he whispers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sharla has lost count of the number of times they have said that to one another, the thousands of times those words have been whispered against each others' skin, spoken aloud for all to hear and spoken in moments of quiet where it is just the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But no matter how many times she says it, no matter how many times she hears it, she is always left breathless. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Something I continually struggle with is Reyn's accent - I tend to write him as I speak (I'm from Derbyshire) but I'm unsure as how it comes across. It seems fine to me (I can hear his voice in my head as I type, so I take that as a good sign) so I'd be interested to know if I've done a decent job with. Dialogue is one of the things I've really focused on improving this year, so I'd like to think I can capture the voices of those I write about. </p>
<p>Thinking of rebranding my Ao3 and saying goodbye to my long ass pretentious parenthesis titles. They're a vibe and at this point I purposefully try and make them as long and prose-y as possible but also they're difficult to come up with some times lmao. </p>
<p>Thank you to all my readers. I suck ass at responding to comments, but I do read all of them and I appreciate them so much. Apologies if I haven't responded to some of you, but please know that seeing people interact and enjoy my writing makes me incredibly happy.</p>
<p>This will (probably) be my last fic of 2020, so here's hoping for a better year and - if my a-level exams don't kill me - hopefully I will be writing some more for this pairing soon. &lt;33</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm going on holiday next week so hopefully I'll get the next chapter up then, no promises though! C2 is drafted and c3 is non-existent rn but hopefully I'll get them done at some point. (I made sure to end the chapters so they could essentially stand alone, if I never get round to finishing them)</p><p>These two were written like 50% good in the main game and in my world we pretend the gross other 50% isn't real. Monolith hire me bc I'm doing a better job with this than u ever did smh. </p><p>hope you all enjoyed xxx</p></blockquote></div></div>
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